By The Fire's Light
by ShierusDog
Summary: Based on the indie horror game Slender. I own nothing, except the story itself.
1. By the Fire's Light

"I gotta tell you, Connor, this is one amazing story," Kurt said, plopping down on the couch next to him. "You've got me believing in the boogie man again. I actually checked under my bed last night."

Connor laughed, taking the manuscript back. "Well it did take first prize in that contest, so I would hope it's good."

Kurt put an arm around Connor's shoulder and proclaimed to the imagined masses in front of them. "I can see it now, Connor. We'll both head to college after the summer. You will write an amazing horror film and I will shoot it. It will get wildly popular on YouTube, some Hollywood exec will see it, and we will be rich beyond our wildest dreams."

Connor shoved Kurt's arm off him with a grunt. "Right, just like what happened with these guys whose series you're showing me. What's it called again?"

"Marble Hornets," Kurt said, pulling out some DVDs. "And, well, they're not rich and famous yet, but they should be."

"And it's about a tall man or something?" Connor said, settling into the couch.

"And you call yourself a horror buff," Kurt said scornfully as he put the first DVD in. "It's Slender Man. And he's scary as hell."

"We'll see," Connor said as the DVD started.

A few hours later Connor stood up and stretched. "That was surprisingly good," he said.

"I know, right?" Kurt said, popping the DVD back out. "Who would've thought a tall faceless dude could be so scary?"

"Not me," Connor said, turning to look at the clock. "I'm gonna head home. I still have finished packing for our camping trip."

"My dad is totally stoked for this," Kurt said. "I think he's more excited than I am."

Connor laughed. "My dad's tolerating it. You should have seen all the bug spray he bought."

"You want me to drive you home?" Kurt asked as Connor headed for the door.

"I live three blocks away, I can walk," Connor said, as he opened the door.

"I just don't want to the Slender Man to get you," Kurt said.

"Cute," Connor said as he walked outside. He waved. "I'll see you tomorrow, Kurt." Putting his hands in his pockets, he strolled across the lawn and down the street.

As he walked, Connor's brain turned over the concept of the Slender Man in his head. Why was he around? What exactly did he do besides stand around menacingly? And more importantly, how would he use him in a story?

Connor stopped as something black and white flashed by him in his peripheral vision. Heart beating, he turned to look to his right. "Hello?" he said. A click on the pavement behind him made him jump. "Who's there?" he said, whipping around. A wagging tail greeted his vision and friendly brown eyes. He sighed and laughed at himself. "Hello, Daisy," he said to the black and white dog in front of him. "Did you jump your fence again?" Daisy just wagged her tail in response. "Come on then," he said, patting his leg to get her to follow him. "I'll take you home."

The next day Kurt, Connor, and both their dads piled into a Suburban packed tight with camping gear. "Let's get this trip started!" Kurt hooted from the back seat.

"All right!" Kurt's dad said as he turned on the ignition. Connor's dad grunted in the passenger seat.

"So, you lose any sleep last night?" Kurt said, shoving Connor.

Connor yawned. "Yeah, I had more packing to do than I thought."

Kurt gave an exasperated sigh. "Not that."

"What then?" Connor asked, puzzled. "Oh, Slender Man." He shrugged. "It was good, Kurt.

Scary even. But I've been writing stuff like this for a long time. I know it's not real."

"Killjoy," Kurt muttered, settling back in his seat.

They spent the rest of the ride chattering about the park they would be camping in and the college they would be going to. Kurt's dad piped in enthusiastically about hiking trails and fishing streams, while Connor's dad told them about his old fraternity days whenever Kurt's dad stopped for breath.

They pulled into the state park early in the afternoon and found their campsite. After they set up camp, Kurt grabbed Connor's arm. "My dad says there's an awesome hiking trail close by that leads to a nearby lake. Let's check it out."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" Connor said, sitting on the ground. "I could use a nap."

"Connor, come on," Kurt said tugging on his arm.

"Stay together," Kurt's dad called after them as Kurt bounced off and Connor trudged behind him. Kurt grabbed his pack as he passed his tent.

"It's not gonna be that long of a hike, is it?" Connor asked.

"Be prepared," Kurt said with a mischievous grin. Connor sighed and grabbed his own pack.

The trees quickly closed in on them as they walked away from the campsite. "Ooo, he could be here," Kurt said, spinning around slowly in place."

"Uh-huh," Connor said, slapping at his neck. He was beginning to wish he had grabbed some of his dad's bug spray.

"Hey, hold up a second, I gotta take a leak," Kurt said, shifting his pack and running off into the woods.

"Kurt, wait, stop!" Connor hollered after him, shifting his own pack. "We're supposed to stick together!"

"You wanna watch me pee you perve?" Kurt hollered back.

"Not particularly," Connor said to himself leaning against a tree. He sighed as he waited for Kurt.

A few minutes later, Connor bolted upright when he heard a panicked yell. "Connor, Connor! Get over here, quick!"

Connor dropped his pack and leaped off the path. "Kurt?" he yelled.

"Connor!" Kurt yelled back.

Connor followed the sound of his voice deeper into the woods. "Connor!" Kurt yelled again, close by. Connor rounded a corner and came to a stop as a black and white suit flew at him from high in the air. "Geez," Connor said, throwing himself backwards. He thrashed for a moment before he realized the suit was empty. He lay back down. "Funny, Kurt," he said.

He heard laughter above him and looked up. Kurt was sliding down a nearby tree. "Oh, no, Slender Man doesn't scare me," Kurt said, grabbing the suit and stuffing it back in his pack.

Connor cuffed the back of his head. "I'm going back to camp," he said. "Come on."

Kurt followed him, still giggling. Connor shook his head. "Could you please stop with the giggling? You got me, okay?" Kurt stopped giggling. "Thank you," Connor said, continuing forward. Then he realized it wasn't just the giggling that had stopped. Kurt had stopped walking completely.

Connor turned around. "What now?" he said. Kurt was standing open-mouthed, staring at something behind and above Connor. Connor turned around and looked. Trees, trees, and more trees stood in front of him but nothing else.

"No," Kurt whispered. "It can't be."

Connor turned back around. "Look, the suit was funny but you need to knock it off, Kurt."

Kurt wasn't listening to him though. He was slowly backing away with his hands up. "I can see you," he whispered. "Isn't that enough?"

Connor took a step towards Kurt. "Kurt, " he said slowly, worry creeping into his voice. "What are you talking about?"

Kurt screamed, high and shrill. It should have been funny. Connor should have been joking about what a little girl Kurt sounded liked. But all Connor could see was they very real terror in Kurt's eyes as he scrambled backwards, waving at something Connor could not see. "No, no," Kurt was shrieking, holding up his hands. His eyes locked with Connor's. "You have to see him," he screamed. "He says he'll kill me if you can't see him!" And then a spurt of red slashed across Kurt's chest and he screamed again. Connor ran forward then. He couldn't see what was hurting his friend, but that wound had to come from somewhere.

But even as Connor ran forward, Kurt moved back, only Connor wasn't sure it was under his own power anymore. It was more like he was skidding as someone pushed him. More red slashes appeared on Kurt's arms and face and he tried to cover himself as his screams grew quieter. "I didn't believe, not really," he whimpered. And then a single deep red point appeared in the middle of Kurt's chest. He gave one final wail, and then fell silent.

Connor finally caught up with Kurt. He knelt down and shook him by the shoulder. "Kurt, Kurt!" he yelled. Kurt's body crunched the underbrush and Connor shook him more urgently. "Kurt!" he screamed, his own terror full-throated now. But Kurt didn't answer. Connor let his hands drop from Kurt and slowly he stood up backing away. There was no doubt in his mind to who the "he" Kurt had been screaming about was, but that wasn't possible. "You're not real," Connor said, voice shaking. But, a squiggling little doubt wormed into his mind. As he backed away, his eyes turned towards the shadows cast by the trees. And then one branch's shadow seemed to move and snake. And then two. And three. Slowly Connor turned around. A glimpse of black and a head far far too high in the air.

He didn't scream again. He was too far gone for that. He just ran, heedless of where he went. He didn't dare look behind him. He knew, knew that if he did he would be lost. Trees flashed past. His stumbled and fell in a briar patch. Hands stinging he shoved himself up. His knees felt wet. He was bleeding. No time to stop though. Just one breath then the next.

Eventually at the top of a steep incline, he lost his footing and fell. End over end he tumbled, neck turning awkwardly at points, but always stopping just short of a break. He came to a stop on his back and out of breath at the bottom of the hill. He looked up at the sky, dazed, seeing the sunlight patter through the branches above him. He was vaguely aware that he appeared to have landed in a patch of mushrooms, that were now encircling him on all sides. And then, something very thin and very tall moved above him.

He was falling again and Connor wondered if he had imagined stopping at the bottom of the hill. But it was dark now. He couldn't see anything. Just a sensation of weightlessness. He flailed his arms and legs and met nothing.

Something thin but strong encircled his right wrist. Automatically, he pulled away, but he found he couldn't move his arm. Whatever was around his wrist was twining its way up his arm. Breathing hard, he pulled with all his might. His left hand felt through the pitch black, scratching and clawing at the thing that was moving up his arm. But it was implacable. Nothing he did stopped it. And then it was on his shoulder and wrapping around his neck. He stiffened, wondering if it meant to choke him. But ,though the tendril was firm, it didn't crush his neck. It snuck around his head and then he felt, rather than saw, it hover just above his right eye. "No, no, no!" he said as he felt it suddenly plunge forward. Vitreous humor dripped down his cheek, but Connor had scant time to worry about that.

For as the tendril plunged into his eye, visions began to play in his mind. He saw small children on a playground, laughing and running. But as he watched, it was if the very air grew unstable and it wavered. He felt heat as he had never known, felt his arms breaking into blisters. He heard crackling all around him as if he was sitting in a fireplace, and he prayed that the fire would take him. The laughter of the children melded into screams. Screams of pain and, worse, screams of terror. Something malevolent moved towards them through the flames, something that had come to claim them. They should have died in the flames, should have moved on. But something was holding them back, tying them into this one moment of agony, and holding them there until they forgot they had ever known anything else. And Connor was with them in that moment, held suspended between life and death, and he cried, his tears mixing with the jelly pouring from his right eye.

Then more tendrils came and shook him, shook him by his shoulders, back and forth. The screaming became deeper and less panicked. And Connor thought this was odd, because he wasn't screaming anymore, and the kids' screams had been so high-pitched it was odd to hear such a mature tone coming from them. Had they been trapped here so long they had grown? The shaking came again and Connor heard his name. "Connor, can you hear me?"

His eyes flew open and he saw far above him a crescent moon rising above the trees. He bolted up, hand flying to his right eye. It was whole, and as he removed his shaking hand, he found he could see fine. "Connor?" someone questioned next to him, but he ignored it. He pulled his right sleeve up, but his arm was whole and unblemished. Trembling, he tried to stand up, but felt hands pushing him back down, a voice urging him to take it easy. The voice was shouting to others now. Connor turned towards the voice and a small corner of his mind registered that it was his dad who was now hugging him and crying.

"Dad," Connor said voice cracking. His dad hugged him tighter as Connor heard other people stumbling down the hill. "Dad," Connor began again. "Where's Kurt?"

His dad pulled away and looked him in the eye. And Connor knew without a word that Kurt was gone. And he wondered if Kurt was really gone or tied to that one moment where you hung between worlds. Burying his head in his hands, Connor sobbed.

"Patrick," somebody said to Connor's dad as he continued to sob. "They caught the sonuva bitch that killed Kurt."

Connor looked up, confused. "But how could you catch him?" he asked. His dad just patted his back and said something about shock. And then firm arms were helping him up and moving him, and Connor, confused, tired, and frightened, let them lead him up the hill and out of the woods.

Connor sighed as he looked out the window. "I can't believe it's been ten years." He shook his head. "I can't believe this is our last visit." He turned his head to look at the woman behind the desk.

She smiled. "Our last scheduled visit. You've come a long way from when I first met you. Screaming about the faceless man who killed your friend."

Connor sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "It all seemed so real Dr. Kennedy. Sometimes I still see him . . . it in my dreams."

"It's to be expected," Dr. Kennedy said, folding her hands and placing them on her desk. "You will probably always associate this 'slenderman', as you called him, with your friend's death in some manner. It was easier for your mind to associate the brutal killing of your friend with a monster than with a man. The medication should continue to help with the bad dreams. And if you ever need me, day or night, you can always call." She opened a drawer on her desk and pulled something out. "By the way, before you go there's something I would like you to do for me."

Connor stood up and walked over to the desk. "What's that?"

Dr. Kennedy looked up at him and smiled. "Your book, By the Fire's Light. Would you sign it for me?"

Connor laughed as he reached over and slid the book to himself. Dr. Kennedy handed him a pen. "You know, you were right," he said, as he scrawled his name and a small note of thanks on the inside cover. "Writing it out, the faceless man and the fire and the kids, really did help me to get it out of my head. I didn't think I'd be turning it into a book when I started."

"I think it's good," Dr, Kennedy said, taking the book back from Connor. "You've taken something destructive in your life and turned it into something constructive."

"Just one last thing to do, I guess," Connor said, looking out the window.

Dr. Kennedy cocked her head. "So you still plan to visit Kurt's killer today?"

Connor nodded, still looking out the window. "I just want to hear it from him. Why he did it."

"This could be closure you need," Dr. Kennedy said, standing. Connor turned back to her. "I think it's a good thing. Just like your book." She smiled again. "The critics are eating it up from what I've seen. It's starting to sell like wildfire."

"Heh, right, wildfire," Connor said, repressing a small shudder. He reached out a hand. "Well, thanks for everything, doc," he said.

Dr. Kennedy took his hand and shook it. "Good luck to you, Connor."

Fifteen minutes later found Connor on the way to the State Penitentiary. His blue Corolla rolled down the Interstate. A feeling of anxiety had been building in him all day. Normal, he supposed, he was going to confront his friend's killer. He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck again. A flash of black and white next to him on the road made him catch his breath. Checking the rear view mirror, he saw a man in a business suit on the shoulder of the road, looking at a car with smoke pouring from the hood. Connor sighed. "Get a hold of yourself, Connor," he murmured as he pulled off at his exit. "You've just put your life back together."

A guard tower, three buzz-ins, and keyless, cell phoneless, and anything that even looked like a weaponless later, Connor sat down in front of a plastic barrier. Next to him was a beige telephone. In front of him was a tall burly man. Jared Holloway, Kurt's killer. Jared's hair was practically shaved off with only a small bit of dark fuzz showing. His brown eyes were hard and his fingers gnarled. Jared picked up the phone. Connor did the same.

"So," Jared said, a sneer on his face. "I suppose you've come to find out why I did it."

Connor looked into Jared's face, at the sneer, the hate. He looked into Jared's eyes, and saw, just for a moment, a flame flicker in them. "No," Connor said, surprising himself and Jared. "No," he said again, wonderingly. He put the phone down for a moment and looked around them. The guards were alert for any wrong-doing but they weren't really paying attention to what he was saying. He picked the phone up again and turned to Jared. "I want to know why you took the blame."

Jared's eyes widened for a split-second and then narrowed. "What are you still crazy? Crazy as when they found you after I lost you?" He leaned forward. "It's simple. I took a knife and sliced your friend up. His blood still dripping from my hands, I turned on you and you ran like a little pansy. You got lucky and I lost you. End of story."

Connor leaned forward too. "Yes, that's what you told the cops, the court, everyone." His eyes locked with Jared's again. "But it's not true, is it?" he whispered.

Jared's eyes flickered back and forth rapidly. Again, for a second, Connor saw a flame dance in them. Jared closed his eyes and shuddered. "Look," he rasped, voice low and close to panic. "If I say that's what happened, it's what happened." He shook his head. "I may be on death row, but there are things worse than death." And then before Connor could say anything else, Jared hung up his phone. Connor sat and watched as the guard took him back and wondered.

That night Connor sat in his apartment in his small kitchen dining room area. The only light came from a small lamp on the counter. He looked down at the book in his hands and leafed through the pages. Dr. Kennedy was right, it was selling well and his publisher was already clamoring for a sequel. He should be happy. But he was more apprehensive than ever. Putting the book down on the counter, he grabbed a kettle off the stove and filled it with water. He needed to relax. A cup of tea and then bed. Turning back to the stove, he turned it on. It clicked for a moment as it tried to ignite, and then flames shot out it in a gigantic whoosh.

With a yell, Connor flung himself backwards over the counter. The flames were shooting straight up, impossibly high, licking the wooden cabinet above the stove. The cabinet began to burn, turning black as smoke curled away from it. It was burning as if gasoline had been dumped on the fire, racing across the cabinet door. Connor turned, reaching for his fire extinguisher, and then stopped. In the corner, by the front door, was tall thin space of black that was darker than the surrounding apartment. Connor froze staring at it, even as he felt the heat from the fire behind him lick his back. And then it moved towards him. "No, no," Connor screamed, bolting towards his bedroom door. He shoved it closed and locked it, for all the good it would do. Even as he closed the door, he could hear the fire whooshing, growing. There was an orange glow coming from the crack beneath the door. Backing away, Connor looked around him. He was on the fourth floor. The only way down was a long jump. He backed against the window. "Why now," he whispered. "Why have you come?"

There was no answer as the door crackled and the room began to fill with smoke. Vaguely Connor was aware that smoke alarms were going off and that people in the hall were running for the fire escape. But more importantly he was aware that flames were licking through the door now and in the smoke he could see dancing tendrils weaving in through the cracks.

With sudden resolve he lifted the window. "You may have taken them," he said, turning to the door one more time. He climbed up into the window as a business suit came into view, smoke and flame obscuring his view so he couldn't tell if the tie was red, or just black reflecting the flame's light. "But you won't take me." And then he pushed backwards, not daring to look below him.

Wind whistled in his ears as he fell. Connor didn't feel fear. Instead he felt a certain giddiness. And when what looked like a head popped out of his window, he waved cheerily for just a second before his body hit the concrete sidewalk. There was jarring pain all through him and stars flooded his vision. "At least I get to leave," he thought, hearing screams and running feet distantly. And then he thought no more.


	2. The Wanderer of Blazes

** Author's Note: Okay guise so here is Chapter 2... I was impressed by how many actually read it but I'd really like some reviews to see if any of you are actually enjoying this story and if I should keep updating. Feedback is always appreciated!**

**-SD**

* * *

Dr. Ellen Kennedy was just locking up her office for the evening when her phone began to ring. She paused at the door. It had been a long and grueling day and a ringing phone this late did not bode well. She sighed. While it didn't bode well, it meant that it was probably important. Swinging her door back open, she walked over to the still ringing phone.

"You've reached the office of Dr. Ellen Kennedy. This is she speaking," she said, holding the phone in one hand and her briefcase in the other.

"Hello, Dr. Kennedy, glad I've caught you," a male voice on the other end. "My name is Detective Carl Rourke."

Ellen put her briefcase down on the floor and circled back around to her chair. She had better make herself comfortable. If there was a detective on the phone she was probably going to be here for a while. "Yes, Detective, how can I help you?" She had been through this a few times before. Officers wanting her to disclose patient information followed by her refusing to give it. She had even been summoned to court once over it. Already she was preparing her speech mentally in her head as the Detective continued.

"I am calling in regards to one Connor Russell. He was found dead outside his apartment building tonight."

And just like that Ellen's speech scattered to the wind. Connor was one of her patients. He had gone through a long and harrowing ten years of therapy after the horrific murder of his best friend and had finally pulled himself back together. Just this afternoon he had been in her office, signing his newly published book for her. "Dead?" she said as she tried to re-marshal her thoughts. "What happened?"

"From what we can tell so far, a fire broke out on his floor. He was trapped in his apartment and could not make it to the fire escape. Witnesses say he jumped from his window."

Ellen put a hand on her desk. Something moved under it. Looking down she saw it was a book, "By the Fire's Light". Connor's book. She put her hand on her head and took a slow and steadying breath. "You want my opinion on the state of his mental health." It wasn't a question.

She could almost see the Detective nodding as he answered. "Yes."

Ellen sat up straight in her chair, pulling on her mask of professionalism. Her emotions could wait. "I would say in no way shape or form was Connor Russell suicidal. He had just had a book published and it was selling well. He was getting ready to pursue a PhD in English Literature with an emphasis in folklore. He showed no signs of mental instability that would lead me to conclude that he would wish to take his own life."

"I see," the Detective said. He sighed. "In that case, is there anyone who might bear a grudge against Connor?"

Ellen stared in front of her, dumbfounded. "Are you suggesting that the fire was arson? Or that Connor did not jump of his free will?"

"I am not suggesting anything," the Detective said, no emotion in his voice. "Just trying to gather all the facts."

"There is Jared Holloway. He murdered Connor's best friend, Kurt, ten years ago. However, Jared is still in jail to my knowledge and plead guilty to the crime before the trial. Didn't even try for a plea bargain." Ellen paused thinking back to this afternoon. "I do know that Connor went to visit Jared today to talk with him and try to figure out why he killed his friend."

"Interesting," the Detective said on the other end of the line and she could hear scribbling.

"Detective, did Connor truly jump? Or why would you even want to know about possible enemies?"

The Detective sighed again. "Okay, this is entirely off the record. Connor pushed himself backwards out the window. Witnesses say it looked like he was yelling at someone before he fell." He paused. "One witness says they thought they saw someone look out the window after Connor pushed himself out."

Ellen felt her mouth drop. "Then why would you think it's a plain suicide at all?"

The Detective gave a small laugh. "Because I'm not sure how much I can trust the witness's testimony. She said the person who looked out the window had no face."

Ellen sat at her desk long after she had hung up the phone. She had dutifully taken down the Detective's number and had promised to call back if she thought of anything useful. She stared down at Connor's book, fingers drumming on top of it. It was absurd. When Connor had first been brought to her office ten years ago he had ranted and raved about how a faceless man had killed his friend. Called him the Slender Man.

Ellen picked up the book and thumbed through it. It wasn't true of course. Jared Holloway had murdered Connor's friend, Kent. Quite violently too. The nature of the crime still gave her the shudders a decade later. Lacerations up and down Kurt's body with a final deep blow in his chest. From the pictures she had seen he had been drenched in his own blood, making it unlikely he would have survived even without the final blow in his chest cavity. The nature of the crime had caused Connor's mind to try and protect itself. Unwilling to believe a fellow man could be so callous he had invented this Slender Man to take the blame instead.

Well, invented wasn't quite the right word. More like appropriated. From what Connor had told her over the years, especially when he had begun writing his book, she knew Slender Man had originated on the Something Awful forums originally created by one Victor Surge. Not much was know about Mr. Surge as he was reticent with personal information. Regardless, others had gotten their hands on him and he had grown into a full blown internet urban legend. With Connor's books hitting the stands, it looked like he'd be just a plain old urban legend soon. If anything, Connor's death would spur sales.

So it was truly absurd to think a fictional monster had come to life and killed Connor. She could not, would not, and did not believe it. She put the book down. Well, she had to admit, the book was selling well. Perhaps the witness owned a copy of the book and with the fire, and the fact that it was Connor, the writer of the story, plunging from the window, had convinced him or herself that they had seen this Slender Man. That had to be it.

She sighed, getting up again. She really needed to be getting home. She picked up the book and stuffed it in her briefcase. If she could talk to this witness herself it would help put her mind at ease. But she knew there was no way Detective Rourke would tell her what the witness's name was, on or off the record.

As she drove down the road to her house she turned on the radio to her car. "Radio on," she said as she drove. It turned itself to the preset satellite classical station that she had never bothered to change from the default. "Tune to Local Channel 3″ she said, eyes on the road. This was the local news radio station. The announcers droned on for a few minutes about sports, the weather, traffic, and a new tax increase to help the schools. Finally, one of them turned to the subject she had been waiting for.

"And in tragic news tonight," the female announcer said, "up and coming local novelist Connor Russell died in a fire at his apartment complex. He apparently fell from his window trying to escape the blaze. Channel 3′s Angelica Logano is now reporting from the scene."

There was silence for a few moments as the signal flipped to Angelica. While Ellen waited patiently for Angelica to begin, a loud blast of static burst from the speakers. "Ah, what the hell!" Ellen said. "Mute volume!" she shouted over the blare. The radio quieted obediently. What on earth had caused that? She looked up to see she was driving under a canopy of trees that lined the street leading into her neighborhood. She shook her head. She knew tall buildings and trees could mess with the line of sight that satellite radio needed, but she had always just lost the signal before. She sighed. It probably meant her radio was dying. When she turned the volume back up, the report was over and the announcers were back to talking about the local sports teams.

After pulling into her driveway, Ellen sighed and turned off the car. Well, it wasn't a problem missing the report really. She was sure she'd be able to find something about Connor in a simple Google News search.

Twenty minutes and several articles later brought her no more information than she already knew though. She sighed setting aside her tablet on her bedside table. Even though she was off tomorrow, she still needed to get some sleep. But as she lay tossing and turning in the darkness, she knew sleep would not be coming anytime soon. Leaning over, she turned on the small lamp on her bedside table. She reached into the briefcase she had set next to her bed and pulled out "By the Fire's Light". Rummaging in the bag one more time for a pen and notepaper in case she needed to jot anything down, she settled back into her bed. Making herself comfortable, she began to read Connor's book.

Prologue

He hates all he sees. Truly he is not properly a he. He does not think of himself as such. He has no name. He needs no name. He knows what he is. The others have left or gone too sleep. He was not powerful enough to follow those who left and he refuses to give in to sleep. This was his world and he will not surrender it.

But he is not powerful enough to take a form like others who were left behind. He is merely a fog of hatred. Those who encounter him feel an uneasiness, as if they know they are in the presence of something that should not be there. But he can do nothing more.

He wandered aimlessly for aeons or minutes he could not say. Time did not exist when this world was his and he does not readily understand it. All he knows is that one night in a forest somewhere lightning strikes in front of him. It is the middle of a hot and radiant summer, and all the wood is dry, waiting for the right match to strike. The lightning sparks a small fire, which quickly catches and grows. He watches, amazed, as the fire consumes all in its path, leaving nothing but blackened ash in its wake. If he could feel love, he would love the flickering of the flames he is now following across the forest.

As they weave and dance through the night, the flames cross the path of a young boy. He has been separated from his family and he is frightened. Instead of following the flight of the animals, the young boy has run in a circle, and how finds himself trapped by the fire. The nameless one draws close, eager to see what the fire will do to this intruder who has taken his world. The young boy senses him, senses his hatred. He thinks the nameless one is the fire or a being who controls it. And as this fear grips and consumes the young boy, the nameless one feels himself grow solid. He wonders at this as he feels feet touch the ground. He feels arms as long and flickering as the flames growing from what is now a back. He stands tall and black, as shadowy as the flame's flickering light. His head flows and melts in the heat and he sees himself through the young boy's eyes and realizes that he has none of his own.

But it does not matter for this makes him fearful to the young boy. He strikes with one of his flowing arms, casting the young boy into the fire. The young boy screams and pleads. He begs for mercy. The nameless one has none. The flames crackle up and down the young boy, taking first his outer covering and then melting flesh from bone. The young boy has long since stopped struggling, but the nameless one watches until all that is left is white bone. He feels himself growing looser again then and losing form. It doesn't matter though. He knows what he wants to do now. He turns following the fire's light before him.

Ellen felt herself growing tired and she did not fight the sleep that now came over her. She felt the book fall from her hands and onto her chest as she surrendered herself to the darkness. Her reading material, perhaps, influenced her dreams. Every which way she turned, she found herself surrounded by hot and high flames. In between the flames something dark and lanky darted always just outside of her vision.

Finally, just as she caught sight of the thing moving in the flames, she woke up. She opened her eyes and stared at her white ceiling for a moment, re-orienting herself with her surroundings. "Strange dream," she muttered stretching and opening her hands. From her right hand fell a pen. She frowned.

"Odd," she said, leaning over to pick it up. "I don't remember actually taking any notes last night." Connor's book slid off the bed and onto the floor next to the pen. As it fell open, a stray mark of blue ink on the pages caught Ellen's eye. She sighed. Had she accidentally marked the book in her sleep? Picking the book up, she placed it in her lap and looked at the pages.

What she saw was odder than finding the pen in her hand had been. There was a mark on the page, but it wasn't a random stray mark. One of the words on the page was circled. "What," she breathed, reading the word. "Why would I circle the word what?" She flipped through the book. As she did, every once in a while she would catch another page with another word circled. She felt a chill go down her spine. She definitely did not remember doing this last night.

Grabbing her notepad from her bedside desk, she started to methodically go through the book from start to finish. Every time she came to a circled word she would jot it down on the notepad. When she was finished, she held the notepad in front of her and read what she had written. "I am what you have made me. I like what I am," she said. The word "like" had been circled several times, unlike the other words, so heavily indented the ink had almost seeped through the page.

She stared at the notepad for a moment and then tossed it away from her. It hit the wall on the other side of the room, but before it had dropped to the floor, Ellen was already up and in motion. She dug Connor's file out of her briefcase. Flipping through it, she found the address to his apartment. Grabbing her tablet off her bedside table, she input Connor's address into Google Maps. As it downloaded directions to his apartment, she hurriedly threw off her nightgown and dressed herself. Five minutes later found her out the door and on the road.

As she drove she briefly considered stopping for at least coffee to give herself a chance to calm down. A prickling fear she couldn't dispel stopped her though. She needed to see Connor's apartment for herself. Beyond that she wasn't sure what she was doing.

Pulling into Connor's complex, Ellen found a parking space a couple lots away from Connor's apartment building. She didn't want it to be too obvious what she was doing. She didn't need management shooing her off the premises. Getting out of the car, she walked as casually as she could toward Connor's apartment building.

It was obvious, even without directions, which one was his. The black and charred remains sat in between two other untouched apartment buildings. It almost looked like the other two buildings had ganged up on this one and given it a sound beating, large gaping holes looking like a fist had punch through them. Ellen glanced up to the fourth floor. Connor's apartment had been somewhere up there. As she drew closer she saw a young woman standing in front of the building also looking up at the fourth floor. She wore ripped blue jeans and a pull over sweater who's sleeves were too large for her. She looked up as Ellen drew close. "Came to see the wreckage?" she asked, a twisted smile on her lips.

"Yeah," Ellen said quietly, grass crunching under her feet as drew even with the young woman. "Someone I knew died in the fire."

"That Connor guy," the young woman said.

"Yes. How did you know?" Ellen asked turning to her.

"He's the only one who died in the fire," she said, looking down. She brushed a stray hair out of her eyes. "Saw it happen," she said quietly. She looked up at Ellen and offered a hand. "Name's Cassandra."

"Ellen," Ellen said, shaking her hand. Ellen glanced at Cassandra out of the corner of her eye. "It's such a shame about his death. What with Connor's book just being published."

"He had a book?" Cassandra asked, surprised. "Didn't know we had an author in our building."

Ellen just stared at her for a moment. Cassandra was telling the truth she could tell. The prickling fear ran up and down her spine again. Ellen took a calm centering breath. She didn't know Cassandra was necessarily the witness Detective Rourke had told her about. Still… "I heard," Ellen said slowly, "I heard that Connor wasn't alone in his room when he died."

Cassandra looked straight at Ellen for a moment, an expression torn between panic and relief flitting across her face. It was disconcerting. "Well, you heard right," Cassandra said at last. "I saw someone look out the window after Connor fell." She turned away and looked up at the fourth floor again. "I saw it again last night too," she said her voice growing soft. "I dreamed I was still trapped in the fire. And I saw the thing in the flames. I don't know how, but I could tell it was happy I was there." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I'm kinda glad I'm staying with friends right now. Don't wanna be by myself."

"You called it a thing," Ellen said, taking an involuntary step closer to Cassandra, trying to control her shaking hands.

Cassandra gave a short, almost hysterical laugh. "Yeah, well, I didn't see a face on the thing when it popped its head out the window. Cops think I'm loony." She shrugged her eyes now defiant, turning back to Ellen.

Ellen shook her head slowly. "I don't think you're crazy," she said quietly.

Cassandra gazed at her for a moment and then turned back to the apartment building. "Yeah, well that makes one of us," she muttered.

Ellen went home soon afterwards. She left the radio off on her drive home, her own buzzing thoughts providing her with plenty of entertainment. As she shut and locked the door behind her, she shook her head. She was taking all this far too seriously. She dreamt about this Slender Man after reading a story about him and thinking about him for a good few hours before going to bed. That was not unusual. As for Cassandra, well, it wasn't like it was easy to see people surrounded by flames and smoke. She probably just saw a person or person shaped object and suggestion had done the rest. That she should have a nightmare about a traumatic experience was not surprising either.

She paced into the kitchen and grabbed a wine glass out of her cabinet. She poured herself a cup of red wine and sat down at her kitchen table. She watched her willow tree throw its branches in the wind in the backyard. As for the words circled in Connor's book… She watched the branches dance and play for a few more moment before turning away with a shudder. She was sure there was an explanation for why she would circle those words, she was just too tired to think of it now. She finished her wine and decided she needed to treat herself to a nice long soak.

That night as she went to bed, Ellen briefly toyed with reading more of Connor's book. She peeled off her tan pantyhose and lay them on the side of her bed. She shook her head. No, given the dream she had had last night, her imagination didn't need anymore fuel for tonight. She turned out her lights and quickly fell into an uneasy sleep.

She dreamed of nothing for a while. Then, slowly, she found flames growing around her again. Something tall and slender weaved in and out amongst the flames. She backed away, trying to find a way out, but everywhere she turned, more fire met her gaze. Finally, the black thing emerged from the flames. She knew what it was. Just too tall to be a man, wearing a business suit with long trailing arms and a smooth blank space where its face should be. She began to shake. "You're not real," she whispered.

The thing merely moved towards her, slowly as if enjoying itself.

Ellen felt her back stiffen, even in her sleep. She was a psychiatrist for God's sake. She knew how the mind could play tricks on you when you were stressed. And she knew what was real and what wasn't. She faced the Slender Man squarely. He stopped "gazing" down at her and Ellen could almost swear his body language was hesitant. "You are not real," she said fiercely. "This is just a dream. You are a figment of my overwrought and stressed imagination. And I will thank you very much to leave my dream!"

The Slender Man leapt towards her, tentacles bursting from its back and reaching for her. But even as it flung itself towards her, it seemed to lose cohesion. A puff of wind blew through Ellen and nothing more. The flames snuffed out under the wind's influence and Ellen found herself surrounded by blackness.

Ellen woke with a start. Breathing heavily her hand reached for her bedside light. It flipped on and Ellen covered her eyes with one hand. Sitting up, she wiped sweat from her forehead. Her nightgown clung to her back and she shivered as her skin made contact with the night air. She put her hand down on the black pantyhose she had left on the side of her bed before going to sleep. Her body shuddered as she breathed in and out slowly. Well, it looked like she had figured out how to deal with her Slender problem. She laughed quietly to herself looking down at the black pantyhose in her left hand. The black… Her eyes widened as the black moved underneath her hand.

With a screech she jumped out of her bed. Looking into the corner of her room stood a man so tall his head brushed the ceiling. His "face" looked down at her smooth and blank. And the tendrils on his back began to whip around angrily, crashing into the walls next to him. He took a step forward.

Ellen felt her back stiffen again. "This may not be a dream," she said, her voice shaking slightly, but steel underneath it. "But I still know you are not real. I do not give you my belief. And I will thank you kindly to leave my house!"

He hesitated for one moment and then lunged at her. Ellen realized with horror that he seemed to be solid enough this time though. With a strangled scream she leapt out of the way. Wrenching her bedroom door open she darted out of the room, running through her dark house. She heard him crashing behind her, but she wasn't foolish enough to look back. Grabbing her car keys off the counter, she dashed out the front door, not bothering to close.

She hit the unlock button on the keys and the car chirped. Wrenching the passenger seat open, she threw herself inside, shutting and locking the doors behind her. Panting and struggling she crawled into the driver's seat, jamming the key into the ignition. She turned and heard her car roar to life, headlight's automatically coming on and illuminating her house. As she tried to throw it in reverse, something and black plunged straight down in front of her into the hood of the car. With a horrible metallic ripping sound, it passed through the hood making the whole car shake. Several other tendrils followed, straight into the engine. The car shuddered and died.

Ellen pressed herself back in her seat as the tendrils withdrew from the car. She reached for her the driver's door. She had to run. But even as she did, she felt something hard impact the passenger's side of the car. The whole car rocked and she lost her balance. Her head banged against the window and she cried out in pain. The car shuddered again and this time turned over, first onto its side and then onto the roof.

Ellen fell against the roof of her car in the darkness, disoriented and frightened. She tried to move for a door, any door, as she felt something pierce her car again. The sound of liquid running down the side of her car and the smell of gasoline caught her attention. She froze and looked out the passenger side of the car. She could see a trailed of gasoline running down the back window. And in the small amount of light given from the street lamp by her house, she saw a long black tendril flick on the ground by the liquid. It grew suddenly stiff and striked the ground. "Tinder and flint," she whispered as a small flame erupted from its tip. The fire began to grow eagerly and she watched it trail up her car. She curled into a ball and cried to herself as the flames circled her car, cutting off all her exits.

Detective Carl Rourke was not having a good night. First he finds out his witness in the Connor Russell case, Cassandra Brighton, has died in a freak fire caused by faulty wiring at her friend's house. And now here is, standing outside the house Dr. Ellen Kennedy, her car flipped and smoldering, her body, or what was left of it, just now being removed from the wreck.

"And nobody saw any other cars?" he asked the two beat cops who had arrived on the scene first.

They both shook their heads. One of them, Patrick he thinks, flips open his small notebook. "One of the neighbors thinks she saw a tall slender man walking away from the car as it burned. She looked outside after she heard what sounded like a car crash."

Rourke grunted. "But nobody saw the actual crash," he muttered. He shook his head. "Two people related to the Connor Russell case both perishing in fires on the same night? Don't buy it." He sighed. "At least the witness didn't claim the guy has no face."

Patrick coughed politely and Rourke turned to stare at him. "She didn't did she?"

"Ah, no," Patrick said trying to hide his amusement. "She did mention something about tentacles though."

Rourke cursed under his breath and made his way to Ellen's house. Maybe he could find some real tangible clues inside so he could find the real tangible man behind these killings. Slowly he walked through the house, careful not to touch or move anything. CSI would kill him. And those bozos would be able to clean up the evidence afterwards.

Eventually he found himself in Ellen's bedroom. He raised his eyebrows. Slash marks on the walls, strewn books and papers. It looked like there had been a struggle. He crouched down to look at one of the books on the floor. "By the Fire's Light," he read. As he did, something black on the wall next to him caught his eye. He stood up abruptly, but there was nothing there but his own shadow. Grunting, he pulled out his smartphone. He quickly made note of the titles of the books on the floor so he could look them up later. And then, with a final sweep around the bedroom, he left to check the rest of the house.


	3. The Nameless One

**AUTHORS NOTE: soooo here's chapter 3, still no reviews, so I'm hoping you guise are actually enjoying this... and one m ore thing, I am now officially in the process of writing my first Black Butler Fic so be on the lookout for that! Enjoy my little pups!**

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Detective Carl Rourke pushed his chair back from his desk and rubbed his eyes. The book he had been reading fell on the desk with a small plop. He stood up and moved to his window and was surprised to find the sun had gone down. Turning to the clock on his desk, the little red digital numbers told him it was nine o'clock. He laughed. "Shame your dead, Connor," he said, picking up the book again. "You've got a great writing style." He tapped the book against his hand. "And I think I understand what's going on now."

For the past couple of weeks, Rourke had been looking for leads in the case of the death of Connor Russell. A young woman, Cassandra Brighton, had seen a "faceless man" look out the window after Connor pushed himself out of his burning building. She had subsequently died in a fire as well. Connor's psychiatrist, Dr. Ellen Kennedy, had just died in a bizarre car accident that had ruptured her gas tank and caused it to go up in flames. And this book of Connor's "By the Fire's Light" held the key. In it Connor described a tall faceless man with tentacles that went around and stalked people and killed them. Usually in relation to fire in some way.

It seemed simple enough to Rourke. Some psycho fan of Connor's, or of this Slender Man, was acting out on one very bizarre fantasy. And just like the "real" Slender Man he was branching off onto anyone who had seen him, stalking and eventually killing them. With this in mind, Rourke had had a special watch set up on Meredith Grolinsky, the woman who had witnessed what she called a tall, slender and tentacled man walking away from Dr. Ellen Kennedy's burning car. If this psycho stayed true to form, he would go after her next. When he did, Rourke would be ready and waiting.

Rourke rubbed the back of his neck and flipped the lights off on the way out of his office. He paused and considered taking Connor's book with him. Shaking his head, he kept going. He actually wanted to sleep tonight, and a faceless monster would not aid him in that quest. "Call me if anything happens with Grolinsky," he called to Deloran, the desk sergeant, as he headed out.

"Will do," Deloran said, with a small wave.

As Rourke slept that night, his sleep was undisturbed by dreams, good or bad. A shrill screeching from his smartphone at 3 am, however, pulled him from his dreamless slumber. "Rourke," he said groggily, brushing sleep crust out of his right eye.

"Detective Rourke, this is Sergeant Deloran."

Rourke shot straight up, his sleep falling from him like his blanket. "Someone made a move against Grolinsky?'

A pause. "We're not sure."

Rourke growled in frustration. "What do you mean you're not sure? Either someone made a move or they did not."

"Her furnace exploded."

Rourke nearly dropped his phone. "I beg your pardon?"

"Fire department isn't sure how yet. Could have been a defect in the furnace. Could have been foul play."

Rourke put a hand to his temple. "Fire again." He slowly shook his head. "Connor's stove has a gasoline leak and explosion. Cassandra Brighton dies in a fire caused by faulty wiring. Ellen Kennedy's car is wrecked and the gasoline tank ruptured resulting in a fire. And now Meredith Grolinsky dies in a furnace blast. There is no way this was an accident."

"She's not dead."

"She's alive," Rourke said, incredulous. He was already up and searching for the pants he had tossed on the floor on his way to bed. "Where is she? Where was she taken?"

"She was taken to Mercy. She's in critical condition, with burns over 90% of her body. But she's alive."

Rourke was jumping into his pants, hopping up and down on one foot with the phone still held to his ear with his shoulder. "Alright, Deloran, call the hospital and get them to keep the ambulance drivers there if you can. Or call the drivers back or whatever. They probably won't let me see Grolinsky, but she might have said something they overheard."

"Will do," Deloran said on the other end.

Twenty-five minutes later found Rourke pulling into the emergency room parking lot at Mercy. Deloran had texted him on the way over and directed him to speak with the nurse at the desk. She would be able to tell him where the drivers were.

Rourke took a quick look around the emergency room waiting area as he walked inside. Chairs that looked comfortable but might as well have been padded with granite formed a square that was broken up every ten chairs or so by a small wooden stand. On the stands were stacks of magazines from three months ago, with the very exciting topics of bass fishing and home living. The walls were painted a neutral beige, probably an attempt to try and calm any panicked people who were unlucky enough to be sitting here. A mother with a hyper-active little boy with a gauze bandage around his wrist sat at one end of the room. On the opposite end, nearer Rourke, a young woman with long black hair sat bent over, face in her hands.

Turning from the waiting room, Rourke made his way over to the desk. A nurse in blue scrubs sat behind the counter. Her name badge told him her name was Amber, and the little smiling sun on it told Rourke she would be happy to help him. She looked up as he walked up. "Detective Rourke, here about Meredith Grolinsky," he said, flipping out his badge.

Amber nodded and stood up. "We stopped the drivers before they left. There in the break room down the hall there, third door on the right." She pointed down the hallway Rourke should take.

"How is Ms. Grolinsky?" he asked, whipping out a small notebook.

"She's in critical condition. We have a couple doctors trying to stabilize her now."

"I heard she had burns over 90% of her body."

Amber nodded. "That is correct. It's really going to be touch and go for the next couple hours. If she pulls through she's got a good shot at recovery. If not…"

Rourke nodded. "Any family come with her?"

Amber nodded to the young woman bent over with her face in her hands. "Her daughter came in about ten minutes ago."

Rourke made a mental note to try and talk with her on the way out. Then, giving his thanks to Amber, he walked down the hallway to the breakroom.

The door creaked as he pushed it open. A young woman and man looked up as he walked in. "You the detective?" the young woman asked, leaning back in her chair.

"Yes," Rourke said, flipping out his badge again. "Detective Carl Rourke. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the woman you transported here." He whipped out his notebook again, pen in hand. "Can I get your names?"

"I'm Robert Fitzgerald, she's Peggy Yorick," the young man said, leaning forward. "What's the  
deal, you think someone tried to murder this chick?"

"The deal is, I am just trying to gather the facts about what happened," Rourke said. He hooked a chair with his leg and pulled it out. Sitting down, he looked up at the twosome. "Was there anyone you saw at the house when you arrived that looked out of place?"

"Crowd of gawkers," Peggy said, reaching into her coat. She pulled out a cigarette and tapped it against her hand. "That's nothing unusual though. Especially when a house goes kaboom in the middle of the night and there's half a dozen fire trucks and police cars outside." She shook her head. "Can we hurry this up? We have to go back on shift in thirty minutes and I want to get a smoke in."

"Of course," Rourke said. He turned to Robert. "You didn't see anything unusual?"

"Crater where a house used to be. Otherwise no," he said, yawning slightly.

"Hm," Rourke said, making a note. He looked up again. "Was Ms. Grolinsky conscious at all when you brought her in?"

"Very briefly," Robert said. "Screaming her head off. Considering how we found her, I'd say that's reasonable."

"Kept going on about the fire until she blacked out after we had in her the back of the van," Peggy said, the tapping of her cigarette becoming more insistent.

"Anything specific?" Rourke said, his voice becoming slightly more tense.

"She said something about seeing something by the light of the fire," Robert said, running a hand through his hair. "I think."

"I saw it coming by the fire's light," Peggy said, almost without thinking. Robert and Rourke glanced at her. She shrugged. "That's what she said. 'I saw it coming by the fire's light.'"

Rourke wrote down the phrase in his notebook. "It? Not him or her? You're sure?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure," Peggy said with a wave of her hand. "Is that it?"

"Yes, that's all for now," Rourke said.

"Good," Peggy muttered getting up. She exited without a backward glance.

Rourke raised an eyebrow as he stuffed his notebook back in his jacket pocket. "She's all choked up," he said getting up.

Robert gave him a bemused look. "It's the nature of the job. You don't last long if you don't build up a few walls. I'm sure you've learned that too."

Rourke nodded his assent. Then, he left the room as well, making his way back to the emergency waiting room.

The black haired woman that was Meredith Grolinsky's daughter was standing at the nurse's desk. "They're taking her back to a room now," Amber was saying. "You'll be able to see her for a few minutes, but only for a few."

Rourke walked up to the desk. "Is she going to pull through then?"

Amber turned towards him and gave a half-hearted smile. "They've stabilized her as best they can. It's going to be something of a waiting game for the next twenty-four hours."

"Who are you?" the black-haired woman asked.

"Detective Carl Rourke," he said.

"Detective?" she said, her eyes going wide. "Did someone do this to my mother?" She took a step forward.

"That's what I'm trying to find out, Ms.?"

"Mira. Mira Gorlinsky."

"Mira, could you answer a few quick questions?"

"Sure," she said, swaying slightly as she stood.

Amber caught her hand. "Sit down!" she said, pointing to a chair by the desk. There was a note of confidence and command in her voice that pierced whatever fog Mira was in and she sat down. She shuddered. Amber was already in motion, filling a small cup with water and giving it to the young woman. "Slow sips," she said, as she took her place back behind the desk again. She flicked her gaze to Rourke. "Keep it short," she said.

Rourke nodded. "Was there anyone you know of that would have a grudge against your mother?"

Mira shook her head slightly, not looking up from her glass. "My father, her husband, is dead," she said abruptly. She looked up at Rourke's raised eyebrow. "I just thought it would be your next question. You know, like on the crime shows."

Rourke allowed himself a small smile. "It's good to know." The phone on Amber's desk rang and she picked it up. After a brief conversation she spoke to Mira. "If you feel steady enough, you can go back now," she said, one hand over the receiver.

Mira stood up putting the water glass on Amber's desk. "Yes, I'll be okay now," she said, her voice firm.

Amber nodded and hung up the phone. "This way, then," she said, leading Mira to a set of closed doors a few feet behind her desk. "Don't even think about it," she said, giving Rourke a good-natured glare.

"Wasn't going too," Rourke said, holding up his hands. He fished a business card out of his pocket and leaned forward, handing it to Mira. "If you think of anything, you can call me at the number on there day or night."

Mira took the car and shoved it in her jean's pocket without looking. She gave a bob of her head, and then followed Amber into the back.

Rourke sat in his car for a good half an hour before he actually started it up. His fingers rapped the dash again and again as he tried to make sense of what he had learned. It was possible this psycho had rigged Grolinsky's furnace to explode. But Grolinsky's words bothered him. She claimed to have seen something by the light of fire she had been caught in. But if this psycho had actually stayed around for the explosion, he would be no better off than Grolinsky. "Delirium, I guess," Rourke said, finally starting his car.

As he did, his smartphone began to ring. Slipping his car back into park, he pulled it out of his pocket. An unknown number was calling him. Frowning, he answered the phone. "This is Detective Carl Rourke."

"Oh God, Detective, please come back!" a panicked voice on the other end gasped.

"Who is this?" Rourke asked undoing his seat belt.

"It's Mira, Mira Grolinsky. I saw him. God, I saw him, the man that tried to hurt my mother."

Rourke's car was off, keys in hand, and he was already running full tilt to the hospital. One hand automatically went to his side, where a gun hung in its holster under his coat. "Mira, where are you?" he asked as he approached the hospital.

"I'm in the waiting room," she said, her voice taking on a hysterical edge. "They won't let me back in."

Rourke bounded into the hospital. Mira was standing near the doors and she jumped as he entered. Tears streamed down her face and she was shaking. Amber was already in motion from around her desk and over to where they stood.

"What happened?" Rourke asked, putting his phone back away.

"She thought she saw someone back there," Amber said, trying to put an arm around Mira. Mira shoved her away.

"I didn't think I saw someone, I did see someone!" she nearly screeched. "A tall man in a business suit!"

Rourke's eyes widened. "I need you to let me back there right now," he said to Amber. "That matches the description of a man leaving the scene of a crime Ms. Grolinsky witnessed.

Amber wavered and gave him an uncertain look. She sighed and beckoned for him to follow her. "We have the entire area back here on camera. We called security when Mira raised the alarm, but they didn't see anyone on the monitors."

Rourke strode quickly behind Amber. He heard Mira fall into step behind him. A strong smell of antiseptic assaulted him as the doors opened before them. He passed a large cart full of linens, several curtained off areas, and a few criss-crossing hallways. They came to a stop by a bay of six separate alcoves. Amber pointed to the third one from the left. "Ms. Grolinsky is in there."

Rourke cautiously walked over and pushed the curtain softly aside. Grolinsky was swathed in bandages and hooked up to several IVs. The machines monitoring her vitals beeped softly. She did not appear to respond to his appearance. He let the curtain fall back. "Where did you see him?" he asked Mira.

Mira pointed to the opposite end of the room. "I saw him peek around the wall there," she said.

"How do you know he meant your mother harm?" he asked, walking over. It was a small bay where some extra medical equipment and IV bags were kept. The wall jutted out slightly, forming a corner someone skinny could fit behind without being seen.

"I– I don't know," Mira said, sounding suddenly uncertain. "I just knew." She blushed as she  
said it.

Rourke looked around the room, taking in the cameras in the ceiling. "Can the cameras see this corner?" he asked.

"Actually, no," Amber admitted. "But if someone was there, they would have had to step out onto camera to leave. Or to get in to begin with."

"Hunh," Rourke grunted. He walked back over to Mira. "Did you get a look at this guy's face?" he asked.

For a moment, panic crossed Mira's face. Then she shook her head wildly. "No, I didn't get a good look." She looked away from him then, back to her mother's room.

Mira was hiding something and Rourke could tell it. But he felt it best not to push it for now. "False alarm I guess," he said, smiling at Amber. "Sorry to trouble you."

"No trouble at all," Amber said, leading the both of them back out. "But I think it's for the best if we leave your mom to rest now," she said glancing back at Mira.

Mira didn't look up but she nodded. Rourke took one last appraising glance of her and then followed Amber back to the waiting room.

Rourke stretched as he walked into his office the next morning. "Okay, first things first," he muttered putting down his briefcase. "I'll get a list of Meredith's neighbors and make some phone calls." He opened the laptop on his desk and tapped the power button. It began to hum to life. As it did, Rourke slithered out from behind his desk and grabbed his coffee mug from the corner. He looked inside it and made a little face. Brown residue from the previous day's coffee clung to the sides and bottom of the cup. "Eh, I'll just rinse it out," he said as he walked to the break room.

As he ran some water into his cup his phone began to ring. Sighing, he put the mug down and pulled out his phone. A number he now recognized as Mira's was on the screen. "Hello, Detective Rourke," he said answering the phone. He reached over for the coffee pot as he talked.

"Detective Rourke, it's Mira Grolinsky," Mira said. Her voice was tired. But it wasn't the tired of no sleep. It was the tired of one who was too emotionally stunned to entirely accept what was going on around them. It was something, unfortunately, Rourke had heard a lot of in his line of work.

"Your mother died last night?" he said, gently. He placed the coffee pot down next to his mug.

"Yes," Mira said a quaver in her voice. A pause. "No, she didn't die, she was killed. He did it, I know he did."

"The man from last night?" Rourke asked. He leaned against the counter top, careful not to jostle the coffee pot.

"Yes. No. I mean–" She stopped. "I need to talk to you in person."

"That's fine, Mira, that's fine. Do you want to come to the precinct? Or do you want me to come to you?"

"Let me come down there. I have to get out of here," she said.

"Alright, let me give you directions." He gave her quick directions to precinct and then after re-assuring her again, he hung up the phone.

"Great, another dead witness," he said, pouring the coffee into his cup. "This has career ending case written all over it."

Thirty minutes later, Mira was sitting down in front of his desk. There were no traces of tears on her face, but it looked like it had been freshly scrubbed with soap and water. Her cheeks were still a little red because of the violence of the washing, as were her eyes, likely from the violence of her tears. Rourke steepled his hands. "What did you want to tell me, Mira?"

She looked down into her hands. "You're going to think I'm crazy." She shook her head slightly. "I think I'm crazy."

Rourke glanced over at Connor's book, "By the Fire's Light" still sitting on his desk. His eyes widened slightly as he remembered the words Meredith had screamed as the ambulance attendants loaded her up. "Why don't I try to guess," he said slowly, still looking at the book. "The man you saw, you don't think he had a face."

Mira's head snapped up, brown eyes meeting Rourke's hazel ones. "Yes," she said. She stared at him for a moment longer. "How did you know?"

"Well," Rourke said, sliding the book over to Mira, "that's going to take some explaining." Briefly he narrated the events of the past few weeks to her. First the death of Connor, followed by Cassandra Brighton, then Ellen Kennedy, and now her mother Meredith Grolinsky.

Mira turned the book over in her hands. "And so, this 'Slender Man' has been spotted in some way, shape or form at all the deaths?"

Rourke nodded, then paused. "Well, most of them. I haven't interviewed anyone who saw him around Cassandra's death yet. But she did die in a fire, like the victims in Connor's books. Cassandra thought she saw a faceless man look out Connor's window. Your mother saw what she thought was a tentacled man leaving Dr. Kennedy's car. And now, you, you think you saw a faceless man shortly before your mother's death." He put a hand to his forehead. "I don't know how he got in or out without anyone seeing him, but I think you really did see your mother's killer. I think we have a Slender fan on the loose, and we need to catch him before he gets anyone else." He stood up and Mira looked up at him as he did so.

"You think I'm next," she said simply. "He goes after those who witness him and his crimes."

"I think it's possible," Rourke said. "I want to assign police protection to you for the time being."

Mira looked down at the book again. Her hands wandered over the title. "Hm," she said. "Do as you please." She stood up and handed him the book again. "I have to go arrange for my mother's funeral." Without another word she left the office.

Rourke took the book and put it back in a drawer. Turning to his laptop, he accessed the police network and found an address for Mira Grolinsky. He made a quick call and had a patrol car assigned outside of her house. Then he began to methodically call Meredith Grolinsky's neighbors, hoping to find clues.

The sun had set once again before Carl Rourke got up from his desk and looked out his window. "Another day another dead end," he said as he shut down his laptop. He hated this. This killer had been two steps ahead of him from the beginning. Killers usually messed up eventually, but he didn't want to have a double digit body count before he caught this guy. His smartphone trilled in his pocket. Taking it out he saw, again, Mira's number. "Well, third's times the charm," he said answering the phone. "Yes, Mira, how can I help you?" he asked.

"I bought that book today, "By the Fire's Light"," she said, sounding oddly calm. "And I've been doing some research and some thinking. And I think you're half right. I think I did see my mother's killer."

"Okay?" Rourke said, confused. "Did you have something new to tell me?"

"I think," Mira said, slowly, "that you have one thing wrong. I don't think you're looking for a man."

"Well, it could be a woman I guess,"Rourke said with a shrug.

Mira sighed. "No, Detective."

Rourke's eyebrows knit. And then he realized what she was talking about. "Mira," Rourke said, as if he was talking to a small child. "The Slender Man is not real. He is a fictional entity."

"Was," Mira said, still calm. "We have summoned him and he has come." He heard the scratching of something on the other end of the line, possibly a pen on paper. "And what can be summoned can be dismissed."

"Mira," Rourke said, still slightly patronizing, "it's been a long and hard day for you. Get some rest."

"I will when I am done. You take care of yourself, Detective. Who knows, he might move after you next if this doesn't work." She hung up.

Rourke quickly called the officers in the patrol car currently in front of Mira's house. After verifying she was at home, he left instructions for them to watch for any comings and goings to her house carefully. Then, finally, he left the office for his home, this time with his copy of "By the Fire's Light" in his briefcase.

Rourke turned on his bedside light as he slipped into bed that night. He tried to focus on the book in his hands. He just felt like there was something he was missing. And it wasn't that this Slender Man was real. Unable to concentrate on the book and his tiredness finally catching up with him, Rourke let the story fall from his hands as he closed his eyes, not even bothering to turn off the light.

Rourke dreamed. He was in a closely overgrown forest. Every which way he turned, he brushed up against tree branches and overly tall ferns. Something tall moved at the very edge of his sight sometimes, but he couldn't tell what it was. He caught a good glance of it to his north (or at least he guessed north from the moss on the trees) and he began to move towards it.

Something touched his shoulder. Rourke turned around and found himself looking at young man with black hair. "Detective Rourke," he said, quietly. "Do not follow it. It will come after you soon enough without you encouraging it."

Rourke raised an eyebrow. "Who are you?"

"Connor," the young man said.

Rourke cocked his head. For some reason the name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place why.

Connor shook his head. "Don't question, just listen," he said, looking over his shoulder. "I don't have much time and this is important. Dr. Kennedy had the right idea. It runs on belief. But there is too much now for one person to deny it existence." He shook Rourke slightly. "Do you understand?"

Rourke shook his head. "I don't," he said. He felt as if his mind had been wrapped in a blanket, warm and stifled. "But I should."

"Just remember then," Connor said. "One person is not enough. Nor two." He sighed. "We gave the nameless one a name," he muttered. "And he will not give it back." He looked into Rourke's eyes. "It is easier to modify a story than to negate it," he said. "Tell Mira that. It's too close to her now, I can't reach her. I won't be able to reach you after this."

Rourke felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. There was something behind him. He could feel it. He could see it in Connor's terrified gaze. Connor's hands tightened painfully around Rourke's arms. Rourke tried to turn and see, but Connor held him fast.

"No," Connor whispered. "Don't look, not yet." He leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "I am free, but others are not. I can't help them, but you and Mira can. Please remember."

Rourke nodded. "I will."

"Good," Connor said. "Now," and his face suddenly twisted, "wake up!" he screamed, still leaned in close to Rourke's ear.

Rourke jumped up in bed. "Holy Mother of God," he said, head in his hands. "What was that?" Without thinking he was already reaching for the notebook he took with him on investigations. Quickly, he began to jot down the dream. A sense of urgency permeated him, a feeling that he could not let this dream slip from him.

Rourke shook his head as he transcribed. "Lord, Rourke, you are losing it. Have a dream about Connor Russell, and don't even realize its him in the dream. Some detective." He glanced over at his clock. Two in the morning. Even though he thought he was a fool, the feeling of urgency did not leave Rourke. In fact, if anything, it was growing stronger. "It's too close to her now," Connor had said. Slender Man was obviously what his dream Connor was referring to.

Rourke considered going back to bed, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. Not unless he was sure Mira was okay. He pulled his smartphone off his nightstand and dialed Mira's number. It rang five times and then went to voice mail. He hung up and stared at the floor for a moment. If it was only two in the morning the same patrol car would probably be in front of her house. He dialed through to the officers inside again. They quickly assured him no one had gone into or left the house.

Hanging up the phone and putting it back on the stand, Rourke grunted. "That's that." He moved to turn of the bedside light he had left on when he went to sleep. His hand hung there as he stared at the light. The dream may have been just a dream, but Rourke had learned to trust his gut over the years. And his gut was telling him he had to get over to Mira Grolinsky's house right now. He took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out. "Fine," he growled, getting up.

Mira lived in a small community about thirty minutes from his house. There were about fifteen house arranged around a good sized lake in the middle. A light breeze brought the smell of the water to Rourke as he climbed out of his car. He nodded to the officers in the patrol car as he walked over to it.

"Something wrong, Detective?" the young woman said inside. Rourke recognized her as Samantha Layton, a five year vet of the force.

"No, I don't think so," Rourke said. "Ms. Grolinsky just called, said she had something she wanted to show me," he said, lying through his teeth. He'd be damned if he told these officers that a bad dream had prompted him to come here. "Keep an eye out, though, okay?"

"Will do," Samantha said with a nod. She prodded the young man next to her. "Hear that, Craig?" she said, as he started slightly.

Rourke turned from the car and walked up to the house. A motion sensor light on the garage went off as he walked up the driveway. His long black shadow stretched away behind him as he rang the bell on the house. He followed this up with several solid knocks. Silence met his ears as he waited. He put his head down and listened. No, it wasn't quite silence. Just there on the edge of his hearing he thought he heard… crackling.  
Whipping away from the door, he moved to the living room window. He peered through the partially open blinds and saw a soft orange glow inside. He drew in his breath.

Rourke turned back to the patrol car that Samantha was already climbing out of. "Call the fire department!" he yelled. "And stay back!" Rourke pulled a Maglite flashlight out of his coat pocket. With a straight focused blow, he hit the corner of the living room window with the butt of the light. It fragmented and fell into little pebbles, designed to break in a way that wouldn't leave shards that could cut people. He smashed the window again, leaving a hole big enough for him to climb through.

"Mira!" Rourke shouted, flipping on the light as he dragged himself through the window. A small trail of smoke was filtering into the large living room, past the two black leather couches and easy chair. He ran, following the trail and the orange glow towards the back of the house.

Rounding a corner, he spotted a glass sliding door that was now reflecting a wall of flames that danced in an almost impossible straight line in front of it. A table with a golden tablecloth shined brilliantly in the light. And there, in a corner behind the table, flames surrounding him, stood a tall man in a business suit, towering over the cowering Mira in a corner.

"Halt or I will shoot!" Rourke said, pulling out his gun and dropping the flashlight.

Mira looked out around the man, eyes wide and unbelieving. "Detective?" she said, fear and hope mingling in her voice.

The man turned to face Rourke, which was a funny choice of words since he had no face Rourke could see. Rourke leveled his gun on his extremely skinny center mass. "Do not move!" he roared.

The man cocked his head and took a gliding step forward. And as he did, to Rourke's astonishment, the flames danced and followed him, gliding perfectly. Training overcoming amazement, Rourke made sure Mira was not standing behind the man and then opened fire. He fired three shot point blank into the man's chest.

He didn't even stagger. He glided closer to Rourke. Rourke's eyes widened. "Bullet proof vest," he gasped stepping back. "But even with a bullet proof vest, he'd still feel the impact," a small corner of his mind whispered back. Ignoring that part of his mind for now, Rourke leveled his gun at the man's head. He fired. He watched as the bullet hit dead center where its face should be. It, because even Rourke had to admit, when a man was hit in the face with a bullet, the bullet didn't stop and then slowly sink into the face without leaving a trace. A black tendril whipped from behind the thing's back and Rourke realized he was about to die.

"No!" Mira screamed, dragging herself from the corner. She coughed as she ran past the thing, and grabbed Rourke's arm. "Don't believe in him!"

The thing's tendrils began to whip angrily as she spoke and it moved forward aggressively. Rourke looked around him. The flames had circled them, blocking the entrance back to the front door and to the sliding door that led down to the lake below. "The lake," Rourke said, an idea forming in his head. He grabbed Mira. "Come on!" he said, whipping the table cloth off the table. He wrapped it around them and ran as the thing struck forward, its tendrils landing where he and Mira had been standing a mere second ago.

Rourke propelled himself and Mira through the flame wall in front of the sliding door. He felt the flames biting into the tablecloth, felt the heat searing into him. With a bounce he hit the glass door. In desperation, he ripped off the tablecloth, Mira helping him, as he grabbed the door. With a shove, it fell open, and he and Mira were running breakneck down the hill leading to the lake.

"It's easier to modify a story than to negate it!" he said breathlessly to Mira, as they ran. "What is the natural enemy of fire?"

Mira's eyes widened in recognition. "Water!" she said, as they closed in on the lake. She started to turn to look back.

"No!" Rourke said, waving an arm to keep her attention. "Don't look back!" And then they were plunging into the water. It seeped into Rourke's shoes and socks, making his feet feel like someone had placed weights in them. Rourke and Mira struggled forward, each helping the other, until they could no longer feel the lake bed beneath them and they were dog paddling in the water.

"We have to believe," Mira said through chattering teeth looking back at the house.

"We won't be enough," Rourke said, looking back with her. The thing, the Slender Man, stood at the edge of the shore, the flames following him in a dancing swirling line down from the house. It stood, black suit melding into and out of the smoke. But it did not come forward. Sirens filled the air as a fire truck approached the house. The Slender Man tilted its head as if listening. And then, slowly, it seemed to melt into the very shadows made by the flame's light.

Rourke felt Mira grasp his hand. "Well, it was enough for now," she gasped, trying to stay afloat with one hand.

"For now," Rourke agreed, beginning to swim for shore.


End file.
